


The Courtship Of Sansa Stark

by goldandbeloved



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: BDSM, Brother/Sister Incest, Consensual Incest, D/s, F/F, F/M, Lannicest, Lesbian, Lust, Multi, Older Woman/Younger Woman, Other, Seduction, Sensuality, Submission, Temptation, lemon cakes are aftercare, lesbian bdsm, mythology as foreplay, queer
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-05-23
Updated: 2018-05-26
Packaged: 2018-11-04 00:24:28
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 12
Words: 12,616
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10978509
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/goldandbeloved/pseuds/goldandbeloved
Summary: The secret history of a wolf-cub, a lioness and the golden heart of winter.This is a companion story to The Wolf-Girl Who Longed For The Sun; as such it takes within or without the story, as you will.saverous au cors gent





	1. Entre Moi Et Mon Amin

The North, a constant ache. Ache of cold, of bones banging against bones, the ache of Cersei Lannister’s cramped and painful legs in the wheelhouse, the hot steam of sweat from drowsing ladies, the ache of her head from the atonal singing of a Stokeworth girl whom Cersei wants to claw. Cersei also wants to claw a hole in the wheelhouse, run free like a trapped beast.

Instead she straightens her neck and raises her head high, silent imitation and communion with Jaime, imagining him somewhere outside. She envies him the snap of cold in his face, even the drizzle that stars his golden hair with clear gems of water. His eyes green as undying spring, his skin ivory and rose, his teeth white and sharp like a glorious beasts’ fangs, the golden hair rippling over his forehead like a wave of sunlight.

_If everyone could see you as I do, my beloved, all the world would be in love with summer. Winter would turn tail and curl into its darkness, whimpering like a wounded wolf, alone in misery as they would have us be, you and I._

Cersei admires a bit of decent covetousness as it’s only proper, even the Stokeworths’ vulgar fawning over the tiny gold and emerald rings above the first joint of each her fingers. Slavering, but appropriate.

The heat in the wheelhouse makes her dizzy, the words make her swim in nausea.

“What beautiful emeralds, your Grace, just like your eyes! Tell us about them, they must be the finest gold from Lannisport…”

They are.

Cersei grits her teeth and pours forth a dram of pleasantries; she could pour them a glass of curdled swill, uglier than Flea Bottom bowls of brown and they’d lap it and thank her for her generosity. However, such crude obeisance is better than other things. After she’s waved them silent, the Queen pulls her crimson velvet and marten fur hood over her face, gives herself a moment alone with her thoughts, her inmost self. She stretches out her pale fingers, admiring the circles of gold around her fingers, watching them catch the failing light like tiny stars.

She lets herself be beside Jaime for a moment, her breath catching in clouds in the darkening air, her lashes dusted with frost. 

Lesser creatures always hate beautiful ones.

(She’d tear their lying tongues from their heads; she knows what they call him, what they call her. The court complains they can’t move for Lannisters cramming the Red Keep but they’ll come running for gold like pigs to the trough at any time—and she won’t let herself think of it, but bites the inside of her cheek.)

Cersei hates their self-righteous faces, the roiling clouds of shame and scold, first this, now that but always rippling round to dark hair, horse-faces all their friends. Loyalties. 

Her father once said there was no one who loved the North like one who’d never grown to manhood there.  
She’d listened, Jaime hadn’t.  
Loyalties.

That’s why Jaime isn’t here, it’s not his voice shouting to his brothers in this godsforsaken place.

Jaime is in King’s Landing, kept there as the caravan left, his eyes a dark storm of emerald.

It was spite, pure and simple and she’s poured out and swallowed enough to know the taste.

Yet, her face stayed impassive though her eyes and heart raged.  
Cersei knows on her side of the wheelhouse there’s only Ser Arys Oakheart, his shaggy dark hair framing his face.

When he dares look at her, Ser Arys Oakheart looks at Cersei like he’s a pup proud to bay at a rabbit, eyes huge and dark, waiting for his reward as if she’s mistress of the hunt herself with a pouch of smoked meats and marrowbones.  
(Cersei’s seen Ser Arys Oakheart’s eyes grow wide and liquid over love songs of princesses in towers, faraway lands, the same way he’ll sometimes gaze at her in dumbstruck, insipid wonder.  
Cersei knows it’s wonder only that she’s a woman and he can do things for her, be useful and loyal, that he’d lie at the feet of the Queen or a kitchenmaid if she asked him to. It doesn’t matter which. A puppy.  
A foolish, insipid, comely puppy.)  
His ill-marked ardor does not make the Lioness Queen feel beautiful, only makes her teeth ache, long for the bracing sweet and salt of her beloved, melting kisses and guttural, delicious coarse words that make Cersei’s golden heart flame red, her cunt grow slick with pleasure.

(Ser Arys Oakheart blushes at the word _cunt_ ,chides anyone for saying such things in front of ladies.  
Cersei wonders if he’d think an actual cunt would be toothed, snap off his cock or fingers. Ser Arys Oakheart doesn’t know about tongues.)

Cersei remembers she doesn’t care and bites the inside of her cheek. Her blood tastes like metal, salt, the intoxicating red spice and sting of the finest hippocras.  
_Jaime._

And so, here she is, aching with miles to go to Winterfell.  
( _Winterhell_ , Jaime had japed and she can only think of it named so.  
Like _Greenshit._  
All the secret names and jests they have, the hiss and giggle between them bright and hot and lovely as a kiss.)  
Her back, her legs her neck, everything hurts and then there’s the Starks.

Cersei hopes they've taxed the smallfolk into the ground for a feast and hall for her visit so there might at least be resentment at the wolves for a change.  
Oh, she wants to sneer at their wine, waste their delicacies, wants their hunger and frustration but it won’t happen.  
The Queen is looking for handmaidens. The Small Council says the North might have someone among their sorrowful, dour parade and she has to, though she thinks she’d rather watch corpses swinging from their gibbets.  
Cersei hates the North and never wanted to be here anyway.  
And Ned.

Ned Stark will have to kiss her hand and smile.  
Too smug to even squirm.  
Cersei won’t enjoy it. Won’t enjoy any of it, even a single petty delight.  
She doesn't want a handmaiden, though she’ll have one whether she does or does not.

Jaime thought otherwise, that there might be a drop of pleasure somewhere in the thing. 

He’d locked eyes with her, replete and momentarily sated, licking his lips, savoring, mirroring Cersei’s tonguing of her own bitten lips.

 

“You’ll find a way, sweet sister.”  
Jaime had purred and nibbled at her ear as they lay in the dark, the scent of straw and blankets around them, breath of cooking fires from the keep, the river stench and sweetness of King’s Landing, then his own dear scent of musk and honey. Cersei sighed then, sighs now. 

Jaime can unhorse men, open them balls to brains.  
Her twin’s so sharp and quick he’s away as the newly dead’s last sight is their own guts in the dirt.  
Cersei growls inside at the particular cruelty that means the only thing she can knock over are trays of cakes, the only weapon she can wield is a barbed word or a vicious glance, if she’s lucky a subtle kick and gracious, lying apology.  
(If she could, she’d leave Cat Stark’s ankles black and blue since they’ll be seated together. She knows it for a surety, like the heavy, dull pain that brings on her courses.)

 

She sighs again, her body nearly numb from pain, her stays jabbing at the small of her back. 

(There’s another place that hurts, far away like a voice from the bottom of a well.)

_You’re never alone, sweet sister. Not while I’m here.  
Not while I live._

Angrily, Cersei tucks the blood-red hood farther over her face and tries to dream, tries not to think of where she’d rather rest her head.  
Tomorrow’s worse than a war and she’s the one who’s in the vanguard.

Her dreams are fierce and furious, till she wakes as the wheelhouse rolls to a stop.  
Outside she steps out to piss (or whatever it is that Queens do.)  
Ser Arys Oakheart turns his head sharply, noticeably hiding his blushing face.  
Oh, such gentilesse.  
In the dark grey sky, the sun rises rosy red, the first beam of light cuts through white and grey clouds like a golden lance.

Luminous. Like coins of sunlit hair, a bright smile.  
Jaime.

It is sustenance in the land of their enemies.

"We’ll have to bring back a treat". Jaime had grinned.  
What is worthy to give in this land of frost and rock and misery?  
Cersei closes her eyes as the grey road unfolds before them.  
She wants a present too. Always does.  
The Lioness Queen thinks of their name-days, tumbling asleep in ribbons and silks that held their new toys.  
Tumbling in silks. Treats. Sprawling across beds like rich pelts.

And Cersei can dream at last. Of something, as the wheelhouse rattles and shakes north.


	2. Interlude: L'Alowette

This is how the sun rises over Winterfell; like a great grey egg cracking, sunlight oozing down like pale, sickly yolk making the snow on the rooftops glitter, the slush dripping like dirtied crystal from spires and battlements.

A raven stoops low, full of its thoughts, though right now it’s of the Maester’s gobbets of meat .  
Some say they can speak if you listen close enough.

The raven squawks as it soars past a window, fans out its pinions as it glides home.  
The air vibrates in the room, sending it to quivering, echoing over bedclothes and furs, off the walls, morning. 

And quicker than a sunbeam, her eyes are open. 

In the quiet room, the dark bed covered with furs, her eyes are a summer sky, blue and crystalline and perfect and there’s not a jewel that can describe them completely. Her hair is a scarlet sea, her breath rises and falls in the morning’s sweetest song, as if she breathes the day into being.

Her heart flutters like wings.

 _Today._ she thinks. _Today something is going to happen._

Her smile is so bright, one might think the sun hides behind the Northern clouds in shame.


	3. Saveur

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Upstairs, downstairs, in the godswood.

Winterfell’s kitchens are hot, the air that escapes steaming outside the great doors.  
No one would notice, not the pot girls with loosened chemises boiling down hooves and horns for quivering subtleties that wiggle in the color that is somewhere between clear mustard and grey. 

It’s like one of the Seven Hells.  
Sansa’s come to look.

She’s eaten porridge and a slice of white bread, nervous with excitement, making sure not one drop stains her sleeves. As any lady does, Sansa knows how to flick each sleeve back smoothly and elegantly, _like a waterfall_ Septa Mordane tells her, though her own rough septa’s sleeves cling close, not like water at all.

In the middle of cooks hacking at rabbits with cleavers, hot kettles of dates poached in wine, clouds of flour and the rich smells of bacon fat and onions, Catelyn Stark is having a moment with the head cook.

Having a moment.  
Sansa knows that means her mother is angry Since she hasn’t yet been noticed, Sansa watches, as if all is silent, the stern line of the cook’s shoulders, the way the cook grips at the pestle as if she’d like to grind Lady Stark to shreds, rather than the long peppers and dried lemon peel for the fish course. Catelyn Stark lifts her head and marches off, clear that this is exactly how she meant this encounter to go even if Sansa’s sure it’s not really. 

A wrong turn and Catelyn’s elbow bangs at her daughter’s side. “Sansa.” Sansa can hear the frustration in her voice, already feels her mother’s spit-damp thumb rubbing at her cheek at a spot that isn’t there.  
There’s a telltale scent of Tyroshi pear brandy.  
Sansa keeps her face smooth despite wanting to jerk away. “What’s gotten into you and why are you here? Isn’t Septa Mordane minding you?” Catelyn rubs the bridge of her nose though Sansa’s only stood there being quiet amid the clamor and crowd of scents. One of the kitchen boys scrambles past the Lady of Winterfell with a bucket of bloody offal, umble for pies for the lower seatings, nearly diving over her full fur-trimmed gown. Lady Stark forms her hand as if to slap then drops it in exhaustion, russet strands clinging to her forehead.

“Septa Mordane said I should see preparations for the Queen’s visit. She said it would be a duty of mine.”  
Like Catelyn Stark, Septa Mordane also has a headache. Her name’s Arya. As such, she assumes Sansa’s being a lady. Submitting to duty.

Septa Mordane did say it would be a duty someday.  
Sansa is certain the Seven themselves would count today as a someday. It’s important.

“Go. Before you muss your gown. Go...play the harp. Make sure you know their songs.” Catelyn sighs, looking daggers at the cook. 

“For yourself, be firm with servants. Don’t forget.”

The cook catches Sansa’s eye. Sansa nods her head.  
“I’ll remember, Mother. You know I always take wise advice. “ Sansa’s azure eyes flicker sweetly at the cook. “Go. And no cakes. You need to look lovely.”  
Sansa’s lip grows firm, knowing she can’t glare at her mother.  
“Don’t. Arya….”

_Isn’t me._

Sansa thinks, uncharitably knowing her mother wouldn’t care if Arya were fat.  
Instead she curtsies.  
Catelyn barely smiles.  
“We need you to be perfect.” A finger flicks an invisible crumb from Sansa’s high collar.  
“Mind. Pray.” Catelyn sighs. “Even the godswood if you must, just go.”  
“My Lady mother.”  
“Very good. Catelyn murmurs, though her attentions already turned to a dish of stripped and slippery ducks and pigeons, soon to be a pie.  
Sansa walks off past the cook; Lady Stark’s back’s already turned as she’s drinking deeply from a blue and red goblet with a leaping Tully fish. The cook drops a spoon, coy as a maiden fumbling a kerchief. As Sansa stoops to pick it up she feels a hand at her belt, quick fingers slipping something into the small blue bag of her pocket.

In the godswood,Sansa sits by the heart tree, eating the broken cake the cook left for her, turning out her pocket not to miss any, eating the crumbs, then the pine nuts, then the apricot and last the candied ginger, slowly, so it lasts.  
Sansa closes her eyes, feels the slow fire of the spice spread across her tongue. She trembles, feeling her skin prickle and sting from pleasure, the heat of the ginger, the chill breeze against her ears that she still feels over her body.  
Every time she tastes candied ginger, Sansa wonders if this is what a kiss is like, the dizzying pleasure, the fire.  
She leans over the ground so nothing shows on her dress.  
Before she goes she looks at herself in the pool, as red and white as the weirwoods, her slate dress blending into the waters. Sansa wonders if she is something someone could want, prays that it be so. She wants to make them proud, to be proud.  
“You want to be beautiful.” whispers the water-girl, to the girl of flesh and blood and slate blue gown.

“Yes.” Sansa whispers back. “Yes I do.”,the stray lock brushing her pale cheek.  
She’s not sure who she’s spoken to, but Sansa quivers, her stomach fluttering. Loosening the high neck of her gown, she can breathe easily again. She wonders how many scales and how many songs she will complete, reddened fingers on golden strings and Sansa worries because she wants her hands to be soft.  
She spreads out her skirts and kneels, sweet as the Maiden, though her heart hammers.  
_Soon_. she hopes. _Let it be soon._


	4. Amor Volant

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Waiting. Curiosity. Wishes.

The air is silent as if all of Winterfell is waiting, everything hushed like a grey sky laden with snow ready to fall. For a moment, there is almost no noise, no clangor from the smith, no hurrying of servants or whickering of the horses and that’s when there’s finally a shout. The royal caravan is sighted--and finally all the silence has changed. 

Sansa quivers with excitement, shivering and vibrating like her harp strings as the last notes of Florian and Jonquil echo in the air. 

Now there’s nothing to do but wait. Sansa opens the shutters of her window to look out to see if she any of it, but there’s nothing yet. The cold air brushes roses on her cheeks as she looks out, her hair blown like russet smoke against the grey stone of Winterfell. 

Sansa watches, but there’s only the tiniest flicker on the horizon. It could be the wind that makes her eyes flutter, her vision blur. A blink and the road is in view again and Sansa thinks she can see something small and beautiful, a pearl or mote of gold. 

Sansa wonders what they’ll be like; if the stitching on their sleeves and coats will be in stars and whorls (as she likes to trace on linens, her needle flashing with its golden tail), how beautifully the horses will be groomed, how graciously they will move.

(Sansa’s the only one who can speak this language; rarefied and lovely. While her brothers learn house words, smack swords together and her sister goes to chase the kitchen cats, Sansa’s learned a thousand words for beauty, hundreds of ways to be graceful, how to do tiny things. Like her Septa taught her, if she brings wine, Sansa puts her little finger on the table as she sets it down, to cushion it, make it not spill a drop.)

Sansa knows dance steps, the obeisance given to one’s parents or one’s lord. She knows patience. She’s had to learn how to wait, how to be silent when she can’t run outside or mess her clothes, how to watch and listen. Her scents are rich strange ones; lemon peel, musk, Sept incense and perfumes. Sansa knows who wears what and how to tell, how in King’s Landing they carry pomanders of cloves, oranges and orris root to keep away any of the illness from the river.

Winterfell does not speak this language either; her brothers and sisters wouldn’t know civet or violet only pines, horses, the bloody tang of the sand pail where they scrub their armour. Sansa tried telling Arya once and Arya said she was stupid, went off to play with sticks. 

There’s something different about her and Sansa knows this too well. She makes her mother anxious, never quite happy enough, her father looks at her with love, but confusion. Sansa knows she’s not like other girls, but can’t tell quite why.

No one else wants to talk about silks or colors. She can put her palm up, but there’s no one here to form a square with her, let alone swirl with her down a line of lords and ladies.  
There’s certainly no one to explain the feelings she has, the way her skin sings when she wakes in the morning, feels her sleeping furs against her toes, points her foot to stretch out the moment of softness and pleasure, the frission of delight from silk on her cheek, the way it feels different when she pulls on her hose now, she makes sure they’re gartered at the knee with a bright scrap of ribbon. Sansa knows she likes it and it’s important, makes her feel like she’s glowing at breakfast all through the day. Is this what her father feels like with Ice beside him?. 

(Arya wouldn’t bite her lips to make them pink. Sansa’s doing right now, soft nibble after soft nibble, to match the blush from the cold air.)

For now she watches from her window as long as she can, watching the pearl roll into the shape of a wheelhouse and tiny horses. A single opalescent flake drifts down from the stony sky and Sansa leans out, flicks out her tongue and catches it. 

If you catch the first snowflake of a storm, you’ll get a wish. Being upstairs and playing her harp, Sansa’s caught a few more, hasn’t told her brothers and sisters when they come in saying they did first. 

Sansa closes the window, sits back at her harp to soothe her troubled self. She has to be perfect, play the songs they like, be pretty and laugh and...

Sansa closes her eyes and lets the notes fly up like golden sparks. _Come to me, come to me_ she thinks like a prayer before she’s lost in the song.


	5. Annunciation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The future comes closer.

Snow dusts Winterfell like clouds of white sugar on a honeycake; everyone’s toes are cold. Sansa feels it’s all right that at least things will look pretty for their guests, not enough to slow a wheelhouse or lead to mud, but enough to tidy over the rough edges, star it with crystal and pearl instead of rough grey rock.

Sansa shivers in her somewhat sensible cloak. At least it’s blue, with a ruff of silver fur round the hood and a bit of trim in black and silver. She’d have rather had gold but knows not to ask for it since it seems to make people upset (but isn’t that what ladies wear?). The chatelaine bounces against her knee, tinkling like bells with its needles and scissors and other tiny things that Sansa carries but doesn’t know quite why yet. No one else carries one--and looking around, Sansa sees her siblings standing in the courtyard, shifting from foot to foot, surreptitiously kicking at rocks. Arya looks up and glares at Sansa then goes back to scratching the curve of a frown into the dirt in front of her.

“Be good.” her lord father had said to all of them before they went to wait outside. “Remember, it’s important for Sansa.” And with the groan of disappointment--there’s waiting outside in best clothes---no watching at the forge, no practice or chasing cats, certainly no dueling with sticks and no looking at the kitchen maids (her brother glowers, then tries to make a kind face at Sansa with a smile. He just looks queasy.)

Sansa had stood there and let them all stare, but there was nothing she could do--so here they all are in the courtyard shivering with ladies of the other Northern houses and all Sansa can think of is the faces her siblings are making at her. Occasionally she’ll catch her father looking over at her. Kind but confused, as if a majestic fan-tailed bird from the Summer Isles had appeared among the chickens.   
Sansa thinks about the joke about a dog that chased horses catching one, then not knowing what to do with it. What would a dog do with something like that, what would someone who kept chickens do with a bird coloured like all the summer’s flowers...

 _and what do they do with me?_

then suddenly unbidden the thought of a sparkling glasshouse, flitting among fruits and flowers, landing on a golden glove, the sunlight coming through to show every colour of each shining pinion, putting fruits and lilies to shame, enough room for wings to blossom, enough warmth to spread them fully--

and it’s at the though of the golden chain, the hood, the jesses that Sansa flushes and the chill air is too warm. Her cheeks turn rosy, flush her to the roots of her severely braided hair.

It’s tight enough that it makes her eyes sting, but she keeps her head straight up. Septa Mordane has taught her to stand perfectly still and elegant and she hasn’t fidgeted once. Ladies don’t do that. If you fidget at a ball, someone might be looking and then where would you be?

And as if time itself holds its breath, there is a silence; then the ringing of silver bells and the tromp, tromp of horses. Sansa is stricken; it’s so beautiful she doesn’t know what to say, the sounds, the cold air, the soft clouds rising from the lips of Northern ladies.

Sansa exhales and with that the gates open, the story begins again.


	6. The Garden of Dead Flowers

The horses’ bells might as well be chiming inside Cersei’s head. Not even a subpar yet extremely potent Arbor Red can bring her silence since the Stokeworths started crying as the wheelhouse drew closer to Winterfell, further from home.

Cersei doesn’t want to acknowledge them at all, so stubbornly she won’t even snap at them to be silent. So she sips from her cup, keeping the leather cover over it so as not to spill on her gown and is suddenly furiously angry.

_I am a Queen, not a babe to slurp thus._

It’s an average humiliation, barely more than a ripple but Cersei is exhausted and angry. She thinks of Jamie. The thought of his furious, violently honeyed kisses is the only thing that lets the Stokeworth girl keep her dun, dishwater braid which Cersei already knows came from a merchant’s basket and there’s just no satisfaction to be had.

With a creak, the wheelhouse settles, the door opens and the maids descend, scuttling to put up a step so their Queen won’t have to suffer the indignities of mud and snow.

Cersei looks around her; with ladies kneeling it looks like a garden of frostbitten flowers, sad things for the root cellar, their heads like cabbages atop plain clothes, lichen, slate, sage, each one duller than the next, their hair knotted into braids.

The Queen is suddenly pleased that her hair flows gold and free. She can already see Cat Stark peeking up, disapprovingly.

Cersei swirls her cloak and shakes her hair over her shoulders. If Cat Stark thinks she’s a whore, at least Cersei’s the whore with her red leather slipper on the North’s throat. Or at least one of its daughters.

_Perhaps a whore, but I’m not the one pimping the North’s ladies in my courtyard._

Cersei turns her stride to a leisurely stroll, the guards mirroring her, Ser Arys at her right elbow (too close for sure) not alerting them to rise yet. The Starks will have such a crick in their backs, though one would think given their history they’d be used to kneeling.

There’s the guttural caw of a raven.

Cersei wants to go home.

There is nothing here at the end of the world, nothing among this sad collection of sad girls because if she’s going to have a handmaiden, she at least wants one who will make her smile in one way or another instead of the dour creatures that probably pray to trees yet will counsel her on her soul.

Trees don’t care what I do.

Then Cersei sees a flash of red. Vibrant, vivid, as deep as heart’s blood and where the blue cloak has slipped, the back of a high necked gown that she’s left undone, like a white arrow piercing, showing the softness of her skin.  
Cersei is startled and stumbles. That’s when Ser Arys Oakheart grasps her elbow, letting the Queen’s ankle twist in his eagerness. Cersei turns to him, snarling under her breath.  
“Never. Presume. To. Touch. Me.”  
Cersei jerks her elbow away and walks gingerly, tiny step by tiny step though you’d never know it from the way she swirls her skirt. She’s trying not to hurry, not to run, but she wants to see, wants to examine

(wants to think about her fingers marking that skin, how pretty it will be striped by her claws, red and white)

Cersei bites her lip and takes her position in front of this girl. She is almost afraid to touch, but she reaches out and gently,agonizingly slides a gloved finger under the girl’s chin, tilting her head up.

It’s like falling into the sky itself, all of summer in those eyes. Cersei feels a shiver of delight inside her, as she feels the girl’s head turn just so slightly into her hand, resting there, letting the Queen’s hand move her as she will.

Cersei lifts her up, out of the muck of Winterfell’s courtyard, dear Gods, her cheeks are flushed pink, her lips rosy.

Someone is saying something but all Cersei hears is “Sansa Stark, Sansa Stark.” like bells. Cersei nods, stroking the girl’s cheek, surreptitiously reaching around to feel the pulse in her neck just how Jamie’s shown her he does it on the field.

Sansa’s pulse is racing but Cersei’s ready to swoon. Oh, this girl.

On the other side, Sansa feels like nothing she can imagine, struck down to her toes from the crown of her head and back again all from those long, slender fingers caressing her cheek. Mysterious and beautiful, like the mermaids and manticores and chimerae, all the women that lead men to their doom, all loose hair and fangs and unspeakable beauty

and there’s one here. There’s the only one here.

Sansa’s never seen anyone like her, a Lady. A Queen. Tall, imperious, wrapped in red velvet and marten furs, embroidered gloves that are beautiful and her eyes; lush and green as the jungles she’s imagined from books, strange and wonderful, the Queen’s hair woven of gold and starlight.

Oh, Florian Sansa thinks in sudden fierce sympathy--and something else is within her, taking the path of lightning, as if she’s become a vessel of stars, her skin has become light itself and feels like it does in the mornings in her furs.

Sansa doesn’t want to stop looking at this blaze of beauty, curves her head to softly fit to the Queen’s hand. Instinctively she knows she mustn’t let anyone see, though she is quite sure that her mother is murmuring prayers of delight right now, but not the secret, furious kind that Sansa has. Sansa wants to keep kneeling, Sansa wants to know, wants every word, every moment that this golden lady might bestow, wants to become.

 _I want._ Sansa thinks. _I want._ dares to link eyes with Cersei, then drops her lashes becomingly.

Cersei looks back, closes her eyes and breathes the cool air in to soothe her hidden frenzy.

_spread across my bed, hair like a comet of fire, a dying man’s last blood, red as wine, white as snow, yourself the gift and sacrament_

_I will teach you so many things, girl. So many things._

Cersei looks into Sansa’s eyes. Smiles, full and luscious, intoxicating and sees Sansa shiver in pleasure. Cersei desires to stroke the back of Sansa’s neck till she pants and sighs, wants to see if she can undo the girl by a caress on the neck if she could make her scream in pleasure in front of what must be the whole North...

Reluctantly, Cersei pulls away, lifts her chin and drapes her hood so no one sees, gestures for Winterfell to rise and allows herself to be carried off to the guest chambers where she can wash off the mess of the journey and have a few sweet moments before an interminable banquet.

First, she’s sending for Jamie. Ser Arys Oakheart failed and now there must be proper guardsmanship. Cersei’s mouth almost crooks into a smile and if she prayed, she’d have to give the Seven something for giving Ser Arys Oakheart such a generous helping of foolishness. Cersei thinks of the pleasure of writing the letter, then writing privately telling Jamie of the treat she’s found, the curious, lovely girl, aching to be discovered, to be taken, all the games they’ll play.

(Lionesses hunt, bring back that which sustains their pride. )

The greatest pleasure will be the stolen one, the corner of the marten and crimson velvet cape in her teeth for silence while her hand works , mind flickering with red and gold and the marks she’ll leave on that pale skin and how the Stark girl will beg for them, what she’ll do when she feels what Cersei wants for the first time, eyes fluttering, gasping, arching the ivory bow of her back--

Even with the promise of that delight, Cersei wishes it were time for the feast. As she leaves she sees the Starks milling, catches the blue cloak rushing into the keep. Someone else wants to be ready for dinner. A sweet shudder goes through the Queen’s body at the thought of each of them hiding, stealing their silent, bitten bliss.

_You won’t need to be quiet in King’s Landing, little sweetling._

Cersei’s eyes spark green if anyone wanted to see but they are too busy attending to her. Her secret is safe. Sansa’s is too.

In another wing, there’s a flurry of cloak and gown as Sansa runs into her room, snuggles into her furs. There’s not much time, but Sansa’s blood fizzes and spins and not even the slightest sound escapes her lips; it’s all jesses and hoods and a sharp, white smile and waves of red and gold around her...

and as she thinks of the Queen she sighs, then lies back, replete for just a moment. It is as if summer has come to her, come to Winterfell at last.


	7. Hobble

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tidying.  
> Curiosity.  
> Care.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi everyone!  
> Thank you for reading; I've been going through a lot of health and continued emigration adjusting, so please keep bearing with me. I'm so glad you are here.

Cersei finds her quarters tolerable once the Stokeworths have ceased their wailings and laid Myrish rugs over the rushes, draped around cold windows with Summer Isles silks, so that the room glows red like a beating heart. Cersei feels like she can at least drop her hood now and points at things she wants because she cannot bear the effort of speaking right now. 

One of the girls sprinkles resin and herbs into a brazier; clouds of frankincense and dried lavender rise in the chamber. Good. Cersei thinks as the other ladies cover her bed with furs and velvets, crimson and white and gold, good she thinks as she lifts her feet to have another soft rug put under them. (When her skirts drop, Cersei allows herself the brief indulgence of rubbing her cold feet in their damp hose on the newly warmed floor, noting that Winterfell’s hot springs seem to stop directly at the Lord and Lady’s bedroom. 

She’d considered taking the room, baring her teeh and looking angry, knowing they’d have to give her what she wanted; but this way she’s further away from the Stark’s marital bed, from their end of the keep. Cersei wants to roll her eyes and jape, but Ser Jaime isn’t here. Yet. 

Under her dress, Cersei shifts at her ankle; it’s still tender from the courtyard, from Ser Arys Oakheart’s clumsy, hideous courtesies. Cersei welcomes the sparkle of pain. Oh, Ser Arys Oakheart has helped more than he knows; and perhaps she should have sent him with more than a day’s worth of rations and a few more companions on the long, weary road back to King’s Landing--but undoubtedly someone with his hature can charm meat from the jaws of any Northern beast. 

Cersei twists her ankle, grits her teeth and yelps in pain, looking up with a quick flash of emerald. Rushing to her aid, and it’s Cat Stark, both of the ladies suddely face to face. Cersei plans what she’s going to say about her ankle, how she can’t bear to have a man’s hand on that delicate place, that she needs a lady’s hand--

and Cat Stark made sure to mention Sansa’s household skills, management, handicrafts. Medicines. 

Cersei sees the sparkle in the Tully blue eyes, the excitement. Sansa will do her duty, to honor her family, just as her mother would have her do. 

Why, Cat Stark couldn’t be trembling in delight that she’s sending her daughter to a monarch’s bedchamber, could she?

Cersei wryly thinks that it’s no wonder Lord Baelish adored Cat, since Cat Stark has the canniness of the finest whoremongers if her bright eyes and quick breath as she assures Cersei of her daughter’s skill are any indication--though the mocking bird was not to have his mocking bawd. She notes this to write to Jaime , plans to express her curiosity to her twin if Cat knows the pigeon’s blood trick but right now Cersei twists her face in pain, snarls, leaving a Stokeworth to put a goblet of mulled wine by her hand and slip away.

Cat Stark slips away too, practically scampering down the hall. Cersei yowls, lets her escorts help her to lie across the great bed, gently prop up the ankle that Cersei makes sure still aches at any touch. They draw the curtains. In the warm dark of the great bed, Cersei sips her wine and waits for her little nursemaid.  
It’s like a song, really.  
With the taste of cloves, orange and Arbor Red on her lips, Cersei savours the moment. Since no one can see her she bites at her lips, tasting spices. It wouldn’t do to be pale for the Stark girl, and so Cersei nibbles till her lips are red, shakes out her hair, fans her gown around her so it’s most becoming. Soon the curtains will open and Cersei will be ready.  
She thinks Sansa will be, too.


	8. Slowly and Surely

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Gentilesse.
> 
> A new world within.
> 
> The Light of the West.

Sansa’s heart flickers in her chest like one of the tallow candles on the mantlepiece; she’s been waiting, curious. No one has been nearby, not even the servants. It’s like Winterfell has tilted, the feast and the Queen pulling everyone closer, spinning everyone else out to the edges of the wintry world.

(Her brothers and sister are probably outside in the Godswood, it’s not like Sansa doesn’t know where they all go. She’s just not welcome. There’s mud and sharp twigs and Sansa doesn’t want to climb things either. So there’s a gulf of dirt and trees between them, “You’d tear your sleeves.” Arya hissed at her. “Sorry.”, tossed an apple core at her shoes to spatter her hem. Sansa never tried to follow them again, thinks of them held in the ruby branches like a flock of friendly crows, eating swiped treats, even Robb. Sansa doesn’t want them to know that she cares, so she glosses on the half-smile her Septa has told her. 

Sansa knows she’s not as foolish as they think she is. She sees things they don’t. But she keeps her secrets, the strange one.)

She’s heard whispers. She’s seen the looks her mother gives her father when she walks in the room, Sansa hears what the servants say, Sansa knows there are questions she has that no one wants to answer, things she’s on the verge of knowing but wants to keep to herself. Instinctively, Sansa knows it’s better not to ask. Instead, Sansa watches and listens till grace and courtesy come to her, strong and sure like a weapon fitted to her hand. A dip of the head and a flutter of lashes do things as does making sure her mother’s cup is filled, her father’s doublet is tidied; it’s a lot to manage to be beautiful and invisible at the same time.

Now, she’s invisible again, but she’s waiting.

Someone has seen her. Like Florian gazing at Jonquil, pale and sweet, clad only in swirls of hair, crystal and diamond droplets to star her skin.  
_Oh Jonquil. Did your skin burn to be looked at so? Did he look at you like he was hungry?  
And Jonquil, did you want him to bite? _

Sansa trembles from the sweetness of it, her cheeks flaming pink.  
Then, her mother’s footsteps in the corridor and Sansa’s at the door before Lady Stark knocks.  
***  
And here she is—  
almost at the end of a familiar corridor that’s now as far away as Yi Ti, clutching a basket of herbs, clean linen bandages, oils, packed tidily around a steaming pot of mint and spruce tip tea. her mother’s instructions echoing in her ear. Sansa is not wholly sure why Maester Luwin isn’t seeing to the Queen’s ankle himself. Perhaps it isn’t proper for their Maester to touch her, Sspta Mordane hasn’t explained this yet and Catelyn Stark has been less than forthcoming. Sansa remembers her whispered words at the end of the hall, her mother’s awkwardly sharp, hard squeeze of her hand, something important.

“Gentility, Sansa. Do you understand?” 

 

Manners and gentility and Sansa’s not sure what to do if the Queen’s ankle is broken after all, but she takes a deep breath, straightens her spine, lengthens her neck, till it looks like a tower of ivory, as the singers all say.  
Sansa hopes she is in fact that serene, that implacable and somewhere that beautiful.

The door opens though there hasn’t been a sound.

Sansa’s eyes widen.

It may be her home, but it’s no longer Winterfell here.

The room looks nothing like Sansa recalls; it glows gold, each flame caught in the fire-lit strands of the tapestry, the frieze of ladies adorning each other’s hair and smiling in a Southron garden, trees laden with garnet-beaded fruits. One of them holds an embroidered hand to pass a tidbit to a topaz-feathered falcon. Across on the other wall threads of copper, silver and gold, hand-dyed silks, sunlight spilling like wine into an amethyst sea. And above in beads of bronze and pailettes of hammered gold-

Sansa recognizes Casterly Rock. 

It’s a marvel. The Sunset Sea has come to Winterfell.  
Sansa won’t tell anyone. 

The air is heavy with frankincense and powdery sweetness that makes Sansa’s head swim, all around the rough furniture is covered with furs, velvets, tasseled Dornish cushions, feather-stuffed violet and crimson silk bolsters. No rushes to be seen, but Sansa’s feet alight in softness, the Myrish rug swirling in dizzying colours under her feet, waves of beauty lapping over the rushes and stones.

Instinctively Sansa slips off her shoes. (There might be something on them and she wouldn’t want to stain such a beautiful thing.) The pleasure of the touch sends shivers over her skin, the carpet feels soft and lovely as if it too is spun from gold and sunlight.

Sansa can see the great curtained bed, but the curtains are no longer handspun, heavy wool and grey fur, but scarlet with golden vines entwining around them, each leaf appliquéd with a golden coin, flourishes of ombre threads. At the centre a golden lion, eye citrine and carnelian, claws gilded mother of pearl, held up like the spikes of a crown.

(This is one of the banners Sansa has traced with her finger as she learned her sigils and barrules, every sign of every great, lesser and small house. Some lords say they know them all. Ladies know better.) 

How did her fingertips not scorch from touching he simple lines of a lion even then? Sansa burns and flushes now--oh yes, she’s different. So different now from that small girl tracing lions and mermen, bears and trout. Of course her brothers and sisters see, perhaps that’s why.)

Sansa’s heart pounds enough she thinks it must echo in the nearly empty room, all the ladies hurried off so the Queen won’t snarl or claw in her pain--

and Sansa feels like the mouse in the story she heard once from a visiting singer. 

The only sound her heart, the crackle of the flames and Sansa realizes with nerves and a strange dizziness that there’s a soft, strange rise and fall of breath behind the curtains. 

The walk up to the great bed feels like it takes hours till Sansa’s at the curtain, one finger barely touching the velvet. Before she can say anything--

“Come in.”

The curtains part. 

Sansa sweeps to the ground, dipping her head, fanning out her skirts, her lips forming the words “Good evening, Your Grace.” as easily as if she’s been doing it all her life after all, not just to mothers or septas, but real. Her voice is low, but sure and Sansa hopes, beautiful.

An image unfolds itself in her mind; her brother finally training with live steel, no dull blade or padding anymore. Sansa understands his shock and sudden grin before returning to drills and forms.

Her head’s down, awaiting the Queen’s response. 

So quiet, only breath and fire and the wind creeping round the edges of windows, but it won’t dare to come in here.

Sansa is quiet, waiting, then feels something brush at her cheek, tuck a russet curl behind her ear, what might be a tender touch at her ear, lingering at her earlobe.

It feels different now. Sansa thinks of silks unfurling, tilts her head almost imperceptibly towards what she’s feeling, catches a hint of lavender, a breath of spiced wine and something else. Something rich and luscious.

(The Queen of the Seven Kingdoms is grateful for the Stark girl’s dedication to courtesy; she can’t look up and see the brief tremble that shakes Cersei’s pale body, but her hand stays steady. How she wants to wrap her hand in that mass of flaming hair, twist it round her hand, make the Stark girl gasp and shake, slake her hunger by biting at those pink lips

Not yet. 

(Cersei knows the pleasure of the hidden caress, the secret, Jaime trying not to cough on his wine as she ran her bare foot along his leg at a particularly dull banquet where she was grateful for the gaucherie of the overlong, scratchy linen tablecloth—and for what it led to later, Jaime’s hand over her mouth, taking a particularly sweet revenge for her trick.

Cersei hopes the cloth still bears a stain.)

“Rise.”

The word hangs in the air as Sansa lifts, Cersei swiftly propping herself on a cushion, tilting her head so her cheekbones are most becoming, her eyes lit wildfire green from the fireplace,

Cersei decides she’s far too wounded to feast tonight. Far too much in pain.

Sansa’s senses reel.

Ivory and blood and gold wrought into -the word’s “woman” but that word’s for cooks and septas and sisters and maids and mothers and who’s in front of Sansa is not like that, nothing like that at all. Sansa can’t take in all this beauty, it’s like trying to drink honey in furious gulps instead of sweet drizzle by sweet drizzle. Honey and gold pouring over the Queen’s shoulders, making the scarlet brocade robe all the brighter, the curve of her body, delicate fingers with gold rings spiralling above the first knuckle of each finger, the gold hairpins and ruby beads tangled in her hair, the golden lion at rest on her snowy breast and her face and emerald eyes

_the sun has risen in the West_

and it’s all Sansa can do to stand when all she wants to do is kneel.

“Your Grace.”

Sansa is grateful for her endless drills in forms of address ; she knows what to say though her head spins, as she dips her head again, feels it lifted by a pale single finger. Sansa lets herself float, look into the deep jade sea of Cersei’s eyes, vast and deep as the snowy fields and woods spread out below Sansa’s tower. 

All the world is the Queen’s gaze.

“Your Grace. Let me see to you.”

And it’s Cersei’s turn to slip; oh those eyes gazing up at her, the blue of a Westerlands sky, the blue of cold stars alien and alluring and the sweetness of the girl’s smile. 

_How lovely you will be spread below me, as the sea lies bare beneath the sun._

Cersei wants to smile, but forces her mouth into a grimace, remembers which ankle is in pain. 

“Thank you.”

Sansa’s fingers fumble with the hem of her gown and Cersei is ready to sigh from this delight. Idly, she thinks of what she’ll write of this to Jaime, how she’ll describe the girl’s touch strengthening, even as she’s tenderly shy. Cersei has noticed her blushes and is curious as to what her new treasure is thinking and how sooner than not, she’ll be making her tell, from kiss-bitten lips, all the dreadful thoughts that are hers, that no one understands. 

_I do, sweetling._

Sansa tries not to swoon, her hands reaching for bandages, herbs, ointments anything to conceal the light tremble, the warmth in the centre of her body, and she _wants_

“Well, little Maester. Shall we begin?”


	9. Volley

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Medicine.
> 
> Curiosity.
> 
> A lady's weapons.

Sansa’s fingers are busy unfolding bandages from the basket and taking out the small stoneware jar of ground oats and comfrey mixed with cold mint tea. (The cook says it’s nicer on the skin that way and smells pretty; there’s something that feels awkward about having something muddy near the Queen, but Sansa makes herself pat it into a cake and smooth it between bandages, pausing to wipe her hands clean to spare her dress and more importantly, the Queen’s.)

Cersei sips her mulled wine and watches; Sansa is solemn and dedicated to her task though Cersei’s also noticed that Sansa keeps her hands tidy. The girl shakes a lock of red hair out of her face. Somehow it looks elegant, makes the curves of her body lovelier. Cersei briefly wonders if the Starks would accept three to five Stokeworths for their girl, but knows full well it’s a price she’d scoff at herself. 

How can one put a price on a princess? A real, sweet-as-sugar one with trembling pink lips, fiery hair and a spark of something beautiful, uncanny, alluring—who waited in a tower. Singing. 

You don’t hide the loveliest ruby in darkness; instead you shape it to catch the light, snare it in a golden setting so that all may gaze at its beauty, place it at the loveliest finger or throat. Cersei looks at Sansa’s slender, deft hands, considering and savours another swallow of wine.

_And what shall I create for you, my jewel?_

A sudden rush of heat flows through her. Were Cersei a man she might have to cross her legs or tug at a shirt to conceal this, but as Cersei considers writing, this once she’s glad she’s not. If she was, Winterfell’s fairest daughter certainly wouldn’t be gently smoothing a poultice around her ankle in a way that feels like a caress.

Cersei’s sigh of pleasure sounds remarkably like a moan of pain. Her poor leg, indeed. She extends, moving her leg closer to Sansa, pointing the toes of her foot as much as she can, so that it’s lovely. Sansa will appreciate it.

Sansa moves with her, folding the bandage gently around the Queen’s foot. As she’s lifting the bandage up to wrap higher, Sansa hears a delicate jingle,feels a gold anklet bump against her hand. Sansa looks up, waiting. 

“That stays. You can wrap the bandage above it.”

Sansa does, her fingers flying. 

“So much better. Your family should be very proud.”

Sansa smiles brightly, then smooths her face back to gentle sweetness. “Thank you, Your Grace.”

Cersei pats the cushions beside her, letting her fingers leave grooves to show the heaviness of the purple velvet, since she knows Sansa’s watching (and the pale violet scratches against the twilight deep nap of the velvet look almost s lovely as scratches on skin,)

“Any good maester or lady knows a light heart helps heal.” Cersei smiles, a promise, a lure. 

“Sit with me and tell me of the North. Sansa.”

Sansa manages to sit on the side of the bed gracefully, as if she’s a butterfly alighting. In the quick rustle of her skirts, Cersei catches a glimpse of grey stocking and a bright flash of ribbon gartering it below the knee before it’s vanished again. 

A sweet sharp grin, hidden with a sip of wine. 

Sansa balances, trying to be comfortable and not fall into or on the Queen. The blood rushing in her ears sounds like a flooded river and she’s trying not to be carried along; the scent of cinnamon and wine, with lavender and the sweet undefinable richness of this magnificent being beside her dizzies her from pleasure. Sansa hopes the Queen has not noticed her breath catching in her throat—then is suddenly sad she hasn’t.

Sansa smiles tenderly. “I’m sure it’s very different than King’s Landing, Your Grace. Colder.”

Sansa’s suddenly very nervous—perhaps she shouldn’t have mentioned the weather. Septa Mordane says it could be considered low, though when she told this to the cook, the cook said that everyone has weather, so it’s worth discussing. She peeks out from under her lashes; the Queen is listening. Intent.

(and Sansa could fall forever into the viridian sky of Cersei’s eyes)

“Does it please you?” 

Sansa pauses. Think before you speak. 

“The snows are beautiful, Your Grace.”

Cersei wants to chuckle but hides it. Oh their Sansa knows this old dance well (and if Cersei had a gold dragon for every time she’d had to prate about the beauties of the Westerlands, she might well buy herself the tower at Oldtown to serve as her wardrobe, but it’s confined to the Red Keep. Sadly, there are no purses of gold for the parries and passes of conversation, though Cersei thinks it could be a reasonable motivator.)

“The cold must be terrible.” Cersei looks at Sansa, watching. “All those poor creatures—don’t they need warm nests?”

_How insipid._

Cersei groans inwardly, but now Sansa's looking at her with the utmost tenderness.

“Please tell me if you are cold, Your Grace. I’ll make sure it’s warm and comfortable.”

Sansa’s mouth is partly dry as she’s speaking and she’s sure the Queen can hear her heart pounding. 

“How sweet. As long as you’re warm in yours.”

Sansa blushes.

 _A hit._ Cersei thinks. Heavy as Jaime’s lance unhorsing a man, solid and firm and how he will enjoy hearing about this. 

Cersei reaches out to brush Sansa’s fingers with her own. 

Sansa’s eyes grow bright, her breath a tiny bit faster, but she’s concealing it well. (How did the Queen know she’d been moving her hand closer and closer, inch by inch?)

“Why you’re chilled.” 

“A bit. Your Grace.”

Cersei puts down her cup and starts rubbing Sansa’s hand between hers, admiring how pretty their hands look together. (Perhaps a Volantene golden cuff with rings, a web of chains and moonstones across those lovely fingers. Exquisite.)

“Such a good nurse. Promise you’ll see to me during my visit.”

“Yes.” Sansa whispers. “Yes, Your Grace.” as her eyes flutter closed. (The pleasure of the Queen’s hand on hers is intense, vibrant. Beautiful. Instinctively Sansa knows she won’t be telling anyone about this—and daringly, she crooks her pinky finger to brush against the Queen’s.

_Well played, sweetling._

Cersei mirrors, wrapping her finger around Sansa’s. Sansa smiles—beautiful, unforced, not the half-smile that every Septa has told every girl to use since the Dawn Age. 

Not letting her eyes fall away, Cersei slowly disentangles their fingers, reaching behind her for a Myrish throw in ruby and ochre, woven with rampant lions. Perfect.

Cersei reaches up, stretching to fold it around Sansa’s shoulders. 

“If I’m to get well, I need to know you’ll be well too. Warm.” Cersei tucks in a corner. Even with this little bit, Sansa was made for gold and Cersei is satisfied that she was right.

“Use this.”

Sansa is dizzied from pleasure; the silkiness of the wrap, the jewelled wonderland around her and the Queen ( _my_ Queen, Sansa thinks protectively. )

“Go now.” Cersei whispers though they’re the only people there. “I’ll rest. And you’ll come see to me tomorrow, won’t you?”

Sansa nods, then recovers her composure. “Yes, Your Grace.” Her eyes flicker with disappointment, then pleasure that she’ll get to return. 

“Fly off to your nest, fly.”

Sansa takes the basket and supplies, artfully moving them away from the Queen so she can recline. Cersei lounges on her pillows, smiles up at Sansa.

“Tuck your head under your wing and dream sweet things. Stay warm.”

Sansa reluctantly pulls the bed curtains, not wanting to have the Queen removed from her sight. Brazenly, she peeks just as they close—and is rewarded.

“Sweetest dreams. Little dove.”

Sansa can’t wait till morning.


	10. Interlude: Before Morning

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Waking.
> 
> Listening. 
> 
> Attending.

Sansa awakens, feeling hands on her shoulder, shaking, looks up into her mother’s eyes. Even in the dim light Sansa can tell her eyes are bright, Lady Stark’s face is proud, worried—and a strain of hope for something, Sansa doesn’t know what. Her mother smooths her hair, wipes a smudge from her face and in moments Sansa’s in her slate blue morning gown and hurrying downstairs.

In the kitchen, the kettles are already boiling, huge haunches of venison braised with mead and juniper berries beside honey possets and capons stewing in prunes and wine. The cook is boiling eggs, frying bacon, carving up bread and drizzling soft white cheese with honey, dried cherries and pine nuts. Catelyn Stark sits at the table looking at one parchment, then another scratching at it while the kitchen maids peel turnips. She crumples one piece and tosses it at the peelings.

“Pay it no mind, Lady Stark.” 

The cook picks up the offensive message and tosses it into the hearth, but not before Sansa reads “B. Dustin reg-“

Sansa looks kindly at her mother, pats her shoulder as Septa Mordane tried to do when Sansa was sad. Sansa hopes her pat will help more, but she’s not sure it will. Catelyn taps at her daughter’s hand distractedly. “Thank you, Sansa.”

“You have things to do. You’ll have to be very grown-up.” Cat Stark looks at her. Hope, again.

Sansa nods, feeling very strong from the confidence. It’s comfortable near the great hearths and warm.

“I’ll do well. Mother.” 

Catelyn Stark smiles slowly, the furrows in her forehead smoothing as she looks at Sansa. “Of course. I know you will.” 

Since it’s warm, she doesn’t notice that Sansa flushes pink with pride.

Sansa sits next to her mother, looking over the parchment and its tables and names. It’s cozy, doing things together. Lady things. 

“Why doesn’t Lady Dustin like us?”

Catelyn Stark looks up, with a flash of annoyance in her eyes. 

Instantly Sansa feels sad, but she can’t undo it, so she bites her tongue instead.

“Sansa.” Lady Stark shakes her head. “Sometimes…ladies don’t care for company. Banquets aren’t something they like. Try to understand.”

(Sansa knows full well that her lady mother says a great deal about duty and having to do things one doesn’t care for, since Sansa has had to do many of them.)

Catelyn pats Sansa’s hand. “There’s lots to do. And I need you to do something. “

Sansa's mother gestures at the breakfast tray like it’s laden with jewels. 

And that’s how Sansa wakes with the sky still not lit, finds herself at the Queen’s door with a candle and breakfast. Other girls might not straighten their back, might not stand tall like there are books balanced on her head, might be petulant that they are not servants to carry trays, but Sansa’s not one of them. 

A tray is a key. Sansa wants to know what’s within.


	11. Bread and Honey

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Breakfast.
> 
> Curiosity. 
> 
> Therein hangs a tale.

It looks like a scene from a song inside; the room still glows from the jewelled tapestries, the last embers in the fireplace., everything shimmering like a mirage. Sansa steps carefully, dodging a sleeping Stokeworth in her pallet on the floor, not spilling anything. (She’s left her shoes by the door so as to be wholly quiet and graceful.) She moves by instinct, quietly and softly, then nudges the curtain.

If the Queen’s sleeping she mustn’t wake her.

Then, a low whisper.

“Come in.”

Sansa parts the curtain as if to open the bed to the rest of the room, but feels it held closed.

“Come in. Close the curtain behind you.”

Sansa’s eyes adjust to the gloom, her small candle flickering over pale hands, a flood of golden hair, a chemise trimmed with Myrish lace, vibrant green eyes and a flash of white teeth, a smile. It’s like she can’t take in all of the Queen at once, focuses on every detail; thinks of songs where tip of toe to top of head every bit of a woman is beautiful. Perhaps it’s because they can’t look all at once either.

She puts the tray on the bed, stands by the curtain waiting. Cersei looks at her, whispers.

“Come in. Sit with me.”

Cersei pulls back a comforter of wine velvet, smooths out a tawny fur.

Sansa climbs up, slowly, making sure she doesn’t knock over the tray or fall or kick the Queen.When she’s settled, Cersei closes the curtain with an elegant flick of the wrist. Sansa’s candle flickers, casting shadows over their faces, catching gilt threads in the bed curtains, the bed suddenly a tiny beautiful room. It’s like they’re on a boat sailing a great wintry sea.

Cersei looks at her breakfast and finds it somewhat plebeian, though she knows she wouldn’t be likely to have fingerfish or slices of chilled melon wrapped with savoury ham at Winterfell. How irksome. Then she looks over at her breakfast companion and the tray is much more to her liking.

Cersei notices Sansa’s blinking the tiniest bit; an unavoidable consequence of waking the Lord and Lady and demanding breakfast from only the fairest handmaiden (the crestfallen looks were absolutely delightful.) She’ll have to be of some assistance to the sleepy girl.

Sansa spreads out a napkin, then folds her hands as she waits to be told what is needed.

Cersei is thinking about scuttling the tray to the floor, but Sansa’s with her. Sansa has eyes, ears, virtuous parents who might find such a thing distasteful. Though her eyes are delicately, appropriately downcast, Cersei can tell Sansa’s intent on the tray, looking to see what the Queen will take first. 

Cersei sighs, realizing she’s going to have to eat some of the breakfast anyhow. She tears off a section of coarse oat bread, tearing out the soft middle since she’s not going to gnaw on the crust like a puppy, dips it in the honey. Then she has an idea.

“You should eat, too. It’s early.”

Cersei’s glad for the dimness that hides the tiny quiver of her hand. In the candlelight, it looks steady. 

Sansa looks up curiously, not taking the bread right away. Cersei nods.

 

Sansa is hungry, but she’s waiting; one can never be sure what a Queen will want and she eats first ( _except when she doesn’t want to_ Sansa hears in her head, drilled in from so many lessons. ) The bread, in Cersei’s fingers looks alien and delicious, the gold of the honey glazing her fingers till they shimmer.

Sansa tilts her head, leans forward and nibbles the bread. One tiny bite, then another as Sansa realizes Cersei’s not moving, not making her move quickly. It feels warm and sweet. Tender. Too soon the bread is gone and Cersei’s taking another piece of bread to dip into the egg yolk. Sansa watches, seeing the Queen’s chemise slide off one pearl-pale shoulder

and how Sansa wants to feel that skin against her cheek, knows it’s a softness unlike anything she’s ever felt. It’s all part of what’s been happening, this unfolding of herself. 

(“You’re not a girl anymore.” Catelyn Stark had told her when they’d had to let out Sansa’s best dress because the chest was achingly tight. Sansa got new dresses after that (and was somehow responsible for Arya having the annoyance of having to be fitted with Sansa’s old dresses.) “You’ll never be able to shoot a bow now.” Arya had growled at her and Sansa was sad for a moment, as if there had been a time when she and Arya might have ever ridden to the hunt together. 

“She’s a child. You’re not.” Catelyn Stark had replied when Sansa told her. “You need patience.”

Patience is what Sansa had. Waiting. )

Cersei chews and swallows the bread. She can think of a better use, and so she breaks off another piece of bread, dips it in the honey, scooping up a pine nut. She smiles.

(It’s like a forest of bright blades, beautiful and terrifying. No one at Winterfell smiles like that. )

Sansa trembles inside. Hungry. And so she leans forward again, licking at the honey once, twice, then she’s nibbling again, slowly. When she’s finished she sighs, flutters her eyelids in delight.

Cersei is electrified. She slides the tray across the bed, lounges. Sansa starts to get up.

“No. Stay. If you like.”

Sansa’s head spins. She wants to be here, wants to know. 

“Yes, Your Grace.”

Sansa slides back, resting against the pillows but very careful not to touch the Queen. Cersei smiles. 

“You can come closer. “

And Sansa does, till eventually she’s beside Cersei, touching her, able to relax at the warmth. 

“Good girl.” Cersei purrs, letting her make herself comfortable (but she felt the shudder that went through Sansa. Someone likes being a good girl.)

 

Sansa breathes deep in pleasure and comfort. No one is going to call for her here or make her do something; all she needs to do is be sweet and kind, do the things she knows how to do, enjoy the strange, lovely feeling of being next to Cersei, catching a glimpse of her bosom through the silk and lace. 

_Teats are a terrible word for something so lovely._

Sansa likes that thought, wants to save it to look back on when she’s in her bed again and needs pretty things. (She’s memorizing every texture, every moment, the light gathered in Cersei’s hair, her emerald eyes, the way it feels to dip her head to her, like nothing she’s ever known… )

Cersei thinks—knows—she’s underestimated the need for a bedwarmer. The Red Keep is chilly at the dawn and dusk and no Stokeworth would ever be in her bed for any reason. A Stark, however, could be an asset. Especially this one.

Cersei smiles, slides down to the pillow as the candlelight flickers, then fades out. 

“Well, sweetling. You’ve brought me breakfast. 

Shall I tell you a story?”

“Yes, Your Grace. Yes, please.” Sansa whispers. “Thank you.”

“My Lady will do.” Cersei smiles in the dark and the tale begins.


	12. Made of Light

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Secret histories.

“Once upon a time.” Cersei whispers, her voice a dark, sibilant purr above the distant sparks of the fireplace, the sniffle and cough of a mercifully asleep, away Stokeworth. Sansa relaxes at the familiar words. It’s been so long since anyone told her a story. Not one that wasn’t one she had to learn from; Sansa’s familiar with both her mother and Septa Mordane’s faces when they’re placing particular emphasis on duty, service or beauty.  
They don’t think she knows, but she knows the crease in the forehead just under Septa’s wimple, the brightness in her mother’s eyes, the too-wide smile.

Cersei’s eyes are gold and green half moons in the tiny slant of light between the curtains. Sansa could watch them, like emeralds winking in the dark. No one here has eyes like that.

An arm around her shoulders, a scent of musk, spices, lavender, a rich honeyed strangeness; Sansa feels it melting into her skin, like sugar melting into a warm, fresh cake. 

“Would you like to?”

Sansa whispers in tones she hopes are sweet. “Yes, Your Grace.”

Then Sansa’s head is resting on Cersei’s shoulder, her senses overwhelmed in a flood of sweetness with an undercurrent that makes her blood spin. She thinks of their hair spilling onto the pillows now, a flood of red and gold, blood and sunlight.

Sansa closes her eyes, nestles close and the story begins.

“Far away. “

“There was only darkness and there were no stars. Not yet.”

Cersei pauses, replete, listening to Sansa listen, her breath quickening, so close that Cersei can feel the warmth of Sansa’s skin against hers. 

It’s Cersei’s blood that flares hot; the sudden vision of something, someone pearl-grey and tender lying between her paws, the skin on her belly moon-pale, sometimes a wolf-cub, sometimes a girl, tilting her head back to gaze with eyes the blue of a placid sea

and Cersei’s shaken. In her mind’s eye, the light changes till the girl, the wolf, shines like sunwarmed amber, then grown tawny, grown gold…

Cersei does not hold stock in visions or fancies. Not anymore.

Yet with the next sentence it’s her skin that prickles.

“The darkness took form, shoulders, teeth, dark eyes, paws that fell soft as twilight. 

 

“Perhaps I shouldn’t tell you this.” Cersei remembers her own feints and parries, pauses.

“I know how your mother feels about the Seven. I wouldn’t want to cause any trouble…”

Cersei’s eyes narrow in the dark, because she wants very much to cause trouble. Instead, she waits.

Sansa stiffens for a moment, not wanting the story to end, but she must take the chance.

“Whatever you think is best, Your Grace.” Even though she can barely see, Sansa dips her head.

 _Clever sweetling._ Against herself, Cersei is charmed. 

_Oh, you’ve learned well. Respecting your House while deferring to the Queen, not presuming to decide what will happen…_

_and oh, you are very curious._

Cersei could hear that in the sliver of hope in the answer. Sansa knows when to be silent and she wants to know so many things.

 

“You’re a noble girl. I know you’ll keep my secrets.” Cersei purrs, running her fingertip along Sansa’s forearm, feeling a tremble of pleasure.

“Far away from the Westeros and the known world, the great beast opened his eyes and looked into the void, proud and magnificent. And it was then he felt a cool hand, as familiar and strange as his own. It was pale and beautiful and her eyes were like silver wells. “

Sansa curls closer, her eyes grown soft and heavy, half-drunk on the pleasure of her Queen’s presence, the warmth, the story, a new one.

 

“Her hair was fire opal, her eyes were moons, her lips were star-flame. And the Lion-Made-Of-Night desired her. “ Cersei tilts to Sansa’s head, so close that they are almost breathing the same air. Sansa wants them to kiss, and she doesn’t know if it’s the lion and the maiden fair or her and the Queen and she’s never thought of kissing a Queen before, but it feels perfect, offering herself up like a sweetmeat,

and Cersei gently shifts, tucking Sansa into her shoulder, trying to conceal her racing pulse,pounding heart, inwardly cursing the need to wait thinking of how she’ll tell Jamie, though if all is good he’s already on his way. 

_I have something lovely for you. For us._

_Right now, for me._

Cersei feels Sansa nestle closer, listening. Intent. 

“The Maiden-Made-Of-Light gazed at him. She was of the beginning but she had never seen anything as beautiful as him, wanted to caress his fur, be held in his strong arms, feel his teeth against her skin…

 

Sansa holds her breath, shivering in delight, it’s like Florian looking at Jonquil, how she tossed aside her hair to show him her shoulder, the way Jonquil wants him to kiss her, but there’s something else here, something strange and beautiful.

 

“And the Maiden-Made-Of-Light loosed her garment and as it fell away it shattered into bands of stars. That’s what the priests of Yi Ti say lights the sky far away from the cities, like spilled milk.”

Cersei’s voice is low and soft , Sansa’s breath soft on her shoulder. Something runs through her, sweeter than creamy possets, like the feeling of promised victory, a child rocked to warm sleep and sweetest, Jamie’s head against her breast, the taste of his sweat and blood on her lips, still safe inside her. 

Sansa’s never felt anything this agonizingly lovely, the scent of skin and lavender, ghosts of smoke and wax and the taste of honey on her lips and the words of the story like a wave lifting her, then dropping her safe into her Queen’s arms

(her Queen. How easy it is to think that here.)

Soft whispers, this is the secret told in velvet and silence.

“And the Maiden-Made-Of-Light welcomed the Lion of Night into her embrace. And she cried out with joy like any maiden who is a maid no longer, and clasped her legs about her lover, who snarled at her in pleasure and gripped her to him as lovers do.”

Sansa sighs, the joy rippling through her body, like a pearl dropped in wine. She leans closer, not caring, wanting to hear more. Cersei’s head spins at the tale, the warmth of the wolf-girl in her arms, the delight in having her there with something that fizzes like the very rarest of Arbor Golds, something she can’t quite name but she’s got a tale to finish and she hopes Sansa will gasp and smile.

(Cersei doesn’t often welcome making people smile. Smiles come with other things now, a flush of embarrassment that she tamps down at a comment about how her _teats aren’t what they used to be, take a joke ha ha ha and Lannister hair’s gold but so’s piss and Lannisters stink worse_ and that’s how the very shape of joy turns into something that she never wants to see, the sound something she never wants to hear—

Jamie’s smile is the only one she loves. 

She thinks she likes Sansa’s.)

“And they mated for a thousand days and the sky shook and glowed with the glory of their love. The crown of their rapture was their child, The-God-On-Earth. Some say they could never cease their passions once they had been roused and the Maiden-Made-Of-Light gave birth to thousands of starry little cubs as well. The God-On-Earth’s brothers and sisters light the night sky as The-God-On-Earth lit the earth.”

Cersei tilts her head down in the dark, catching the hint of chamomile in Sansa’s hair, like she’s a creature made of flowers something as unreal and ethereal as a starry cub. But she’s real, here, heavy and warm and beautiful. 

Cersei decides on an ending.

“They’re still in love, bringing forth the stars. And some say the sunset is the Maiden-Made-Of-Light ’s loveliest silks that she wears to rouse her true love, the Lion-Of-Night to embrace her. And every night they remake and refill the sky with their endless rapture.”

Cersei feels Sansa snuggle against her in pleasure at the happy end. Cersei has a bit more, her eyes sparkling in the darkness.

“In Yi Ti…these are who they pray to. Not the Old Gods or the Drowned God. Not the Faith. The Great Lion and The Bright Lady who bring forth all things of beauty and grace, now and always. “ At the last word, Cersei’s voice drops low and soft. “No Smith or Father or Crone or Stranger or Mother or Maiden or Warrior, only the lovers who begin all and end all, each the mirror of the other endless and beautiful. Like love itself.”

Cersei closes her eyes and she can almost believe it. It’s stronger here, somehow. Perhaps it’s because Sansa believes in love as truly and fiercely as any girl can. (It’s been argued the only true god’s between a woman’s legs anyway and that’s love too, or it should be.) 

It’s dark enough that Cersei can only feel Sansa’s smile against her skin, but it feels so bright she can almost see it. “That was wonderful.” Sansa murmurs. “Thank you, Your Grace.” Sansa lets herself drift to sleep, almost too pleased to close her eyes and miss a moment, but her Queen is holding her…  
As Sansa curls against her, Cersei can almost see her glowing with pleasure, the bliss of a love story, the indolent pleasure of falling asleep next to a Queen. 

Cersei doesn’t need to see Sansa to know she looks radiant, her slender body a cradle of stars. As Cersei closes her eyes, safe for a moment, secure in knowing here her power holds full sway, her own dreams are of sharp claws and lapis skies, rosy silks, blood-red hair.


End file.
